第十章（第32/42页）

She was sure Connie had a lover, and something in her soul exulted. But who was he? Who was he? Perhaps Mrs. Flint would provide a clue.

她已经确信康妮有了情人，她心底的某些东西在欢呼雀跃。但他究竟是谁？那男人究竟是何许人也？或许弗林特太太能提供点线索。

Connie would not take her bath this evening. The sense of his flesh touching her, his very stickiness upon her, was dear to her, and in a sense holy.

当晚，康妮甚至不愿沐浴。两人彼此抚触，紧紧相拥，那种美妙的感觉对她而言弥足珍贵，甚至有几分神圣。

Clifford was very uneasy. He would not let her go after dinner, and she had wanted so much to be alone. She looked at him, but was curiously submissive.

克利福德整晚惴惴不安。晚饭后，他请求康妮留在自己身边，而她却极度渴望独处。她低头望着丈夫，出人意料地选择了顺从。

"Shall we play a game, or shall I read to you, or what shall it be?" he asked uneasily.

“我们来玩牌，还是我读书给你听，或者做点别的什么？”他忐忑不安地问。

"You read to me," said Connie.

“你读书给我听吧。”康妮说。

"What shall I read—verse or prose? Or drama?” "Read Racine," she said.

“读点什么呢——诗歌还是散文？不然戏剧？”“读拉辛（注：1639-1699，法国剧作家，诗人）的作品吧。”她说。

It had been one of his stunts in the past, to read Racine in the real French grand manner, but he was rusty now, and a little self-conscious; he really preferred the loudspeaker. But Connie was sewing, sewing a little frock silk of primrose silk, cut out of one of her dresses, for Mrs. Flint's baby. Between coming home and dinner she had cut it out, and she sat in the soft quiescent rapture of herself sewing, while the noise of the reading went on.

这曾是他的拿手绝活之一，用字正腔圆的法语，抑扬顿挫地朗诵拉辛的作品，但如今却大不如前，而且又显得有些做作，他其实更愿意去听收音机。但康妮却照样做着针线，给弗林特太太的女儿缝件小斗篷，所用的淡黄色丝绸，是从自己的衣裙上裁下来的。回家后，利用晚饭前的空当，她做好裁剪的工作，如今正静静地坐在那里，全神贯注地缝着，朗诵诗歌的噪音仍不绝于耳。

Inside herself she could feel the humming of passion, like the after-humming of deep bells.

在其内心深处，康妮感觉到激情在嗡嗡作响，好似低沉钟声那悠长的余音。

Clifford said something to her about the Racine. She caught the sense after the words had gone.

克利福德跟她讲了些关于拉辛的见解。话音落下许久，她才醒过神来。

"Yes! Yes!" she said, looking up at him. "It is splendid." Again he was frightened at the deep blue blaze of her eyes, and of her soft stillness, sitting there. She had never been so utterly soft and still. She fascinated him helplessly, as if some perfume about her intoxicated him. So he went on helplessly with his reading, and the throaty sound of the French was like the wind in the chimneys to her. Of the Racine she heard not one syllable.

“没错！没错！”她抬头看着他说。“他的作品确实了不起。”她双眸中闪耀着的深蓝色光辉，还有端坐时那温柔娴静的神态，都让克利福德心悸不已。她从未如此温婉，如此安静。她将他迷得神魂颠倒，不能自拔，似乎周身飘散的某种异香让他如醉如痴。于是，他不由自主地继续读着，在她听来，法语中的喉音就像烟囱里飘荡的风。至于拉辛到底写了些什么，她根本一点都没留意。

She was gone in her own soft rapture, like a forest soughing with the dim, glad moan of spring, moving into bud. She could feel in the same world with her the man, the nameless man, moving on beautiful feet, beautiful in the phallic mystery. And in herself in all her veins, she felt him and his child. His child was in all her veins, like a twilight.